


Let The Circle Be Unbroken

by ElynnaAmell



Series: The Circle and The Sword [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-01 07:14:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2764403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElynnaAmell/pseuds/ElynnaAmell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ferelden's Circle Tower at the time of the Fifth Blight was known for being far more lenient towards mages and was generally libertine. It wasn't always that way, however. This fic revolves around Greagoir, Irving and Wynne, their lives and loves, in the years leading to 9:12 Dragon and how they fought to reform the Circle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Legend of Calenhad

**Author's Note:**

> This is most certaintly a WIP. Treat it as such; chapters may change drastically or be renumbered.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relevant Codex Entries:  
> -Origins: History of Fereldan Chapter 1; Lake Calenhad; Redcliffe;

Tayren gathered her skirts and ran up the cliff’s edge. The six year old was as lithe as a squirrel as she and her companion played among the rust-red cliffs that gave the village and the arling its name. The two children were from poor families, but few in Redcliffe had any real money. They gave little thought to their shoelessness or their patched clothes: life in the fishing village was simple, but the sense of community overwhelmingly made up for any shortcomings. As they sat high above the village, caked in red clay and hair askew, the two children let their feet dangle over the cliff edge as they watched the flight of birds through the golden haze of the evening summer sun.

“I wish they’d let us swim in the lake… it’s so hot out today,” Tayren complained, falling backward into the grass.

“Swim? In Lake Calenhad? I don’t think people swim in the lake waters anywhere along its shores… They say there’s some sort of magic in the water.”

Tayren propped herself up on her elbow and studied her companion. The boy was tall for his seven years. He was thin, but strong and his green eyes always seemed to glitter with amusement. The day spent playing had caked his tanned skin red along with his usually chestnut brown hair. He was fascinated by legends and stories and she knew that he was waiting for her to give him some excuse to tell her about the ones surrounding Lake Calenhad. Tayren enjoyed hearing his stories, so she obliged.

“Why is it magic?”

Her companion leaned back on the palms of his hands and looked out onto the lake. “Long ago Ferelden didn’t exist. There was a very, very old people, known as the Avvars. They didn’t know about the Maker, and Andraste hadn’t been born. The Tevinter Imperium hadn’t even passed the Waking Sea back then. The Avvars had different gods, and one was called Korth, the Mountain-Father. Korth was said to rule the world from his great mountain at the center of the world, called Belenas. But soon Korth began to fight with another of the Avvar gods, Nathramar, and Belenas was destroyed. All that was left was a crater. When the Avvar goddess, the Lady of the Skies, saw Belenas was gone, she cried for many days and the crater was filled.” The boy paused and swept a hand through his hair.

“When the Tevinter had finally come to this land, the Avvar had fully separated from the Alamarri- that’s our ancestors- and the Chasind-“

“Who?”

“You know the Chasind. They live in the Korcari Wilds to the south… Where the witches live.”

Tayren’s eyes grew wide. Her mother had told her about Flemeth and the Witches of the Wilds…  
The boy grew a bit impatient and returned to his story, “Anyways. When the Tevinter Imperium began to conquer, they didn’t know about the old Avvar legends. They had their own thoughts about the lake. They believed that their Dragon of Mysteries, Razikale- one of the Old Gods, the ones who cause the Blights- had blessed the waters of the lake. They thought that anyone who drank of its waters received special insights. So they built a tower on the island where they could study magic.”

“The Circle of Magi?” Tayren interrupted again.

“That’s where the Tower of the Mages is today… I don’t think they had Circles before the Chantry… And this was still before Andraste was born, so the Chantry wasn’t around… But the Tevinter Magisters studied magic there.”

“Oh. Ok.” Tayren didn’t really see the difference. Mages in a tower were mages in a tower. But the boy seemed insistent, so there must be something she didn’t see.

“Anyways, then there’s the legend of Calenhad Theirin, the Silver Knight, who unified the Alamarri tribes into Ferelden. They say that Calenhad lived in the Tower for a year and a day, and every day-“

“I think I hear your mother calling,” Tayren piped up.

The boy sighed. Tayren knew the tale of Calenhad anyways, and he was hungry…

“Race you to the bottom!” the boy said, as he rose to begin the descent.

Tayren and the boy ran down the cliffs as fast as they could. They had run the course so many times before that the thought that a single misstep could mean death seemed to mean little to them. But then Tayren stumbled. A loose stone had caused her to trip, and fall over the cliff with fifty feet left to the ground.

Irving turned and saw his friend falling. He was frustrated and frightened- more so than he’d ever been in his life. If she died, it was because of him asking her to race. All so he could get home before his mother scolded him. Without thinking, he silently willed her to stop.

The village had rushed out when the girl began screaming as she fell, and so all saw how unnaturally her descent was slowed and how she was righted at the bottom. Tayren landed gently, on her feet, utterly unharmed. She was white with fear and ran sobbing to her mother. Her mother was also white with shock, but of a different sort. Irving walked the rest of the way down the cliffs and silently approached his own mother. She had the same sick look on her face as Tayren’s mother. His father looked at him as if he had grown two heads.

“I need to see both children, preferably now.” Irving turned towards the booming voice of Knight-Commander Sorell. He grew afraid as he realized what was about to happen. His father pushed him towards the Knight-Commander, without a word. Tayren’s mother began to pry her daughter off of her, and push her towards the Templar. Tayren, still in shock from her fall, clung to her mother and wailed and screamed.

“Goodwife, accompany your daughter if that will be easier.”

There was a palpable sense of unease among the disassembling villagers as the group of four walked across the village green to the Chantry. Irving had always felt a sense of calm when in the Chantry, but as he entered he dreaded what was to come. Additionally, the empty pews lent an eerie feel to his anxiety. Turning towards one of the back rooms, the Knight Commander seated the two suspected mages and began to attempt to drain each one of mana.

Sorell began with Tayren. He frowned and then dismissed the mother and daughter, halting to suggest a bit more kindly that they may wish to see the Revered Mother if Tayren was still feeling unwell. Sorell then turned his attention to Irving, and his pleasant mask slipped, replaced by a grimace and a steely glint in his eyes. He still tested Irving- and perhaps went a bit too far in draining his mana- but before he had begun, he’d determined the boy was a mage.

Sorell left Irving feeling weak and gasping for air as the room seemed to spin. He’d had little idea he was a mage and he was frightened. He possessed the trivial knowledge of a much older man, but his stories and facts were little comfort now that he was living that reality. Sorell gave Irving no time to collect himself, hauling the boy out of the Chantry by the scruff of his neck to the village green.

Addressing those present, Sorell spoke in somber tones, “This boy, Irving Fisher, has been claimed as a ward of the Chantry. He has been found to possess magic, and will therefore be taken to the Circle of Magi, to remain under the Maker’s guidance for the duration of his life. Should he return to Redcliffe before his twentieth birthday, those assembled are bound to report him to the Chantry, as he will be branded apostate. Any who aid him, in a manner that is not consistent with the goals of the Chantry and the Circle, will face the Maker’s justice.”

As Irving listened to Sorell, he felt sick. His parents refused to look him in the eye, and left the green before Irving could speak with them. The look of revulsion on his father’s face cut him like a knife. Sorell gave him little time to dwell on that, however, as he carted the boy off towards Redcliffe Castle, to alert the Arl about this development.

Before he knew what was happening Irving was on the back of horse, tied to the Knight-Commander as he personally brought him to the docks at Lake Calenhad. Irving wondered if the Knight-Commander was just bored. This was a task any unranked Templar could do, surely. The ride took several days, and the Templar watched Irving like a hawk. Irving felt no urge to run: where would he go?

The boy attempted to adjust to his situation but often found himself crying at night, when he thought the darkness hid his tears from the Templar. Sorell spoke to Irving only when necessary, remaining cold and emotionally distant. Irving couldn’t believe that this was the same Knight-Commander who had often thought Irving’s pranks and curiosity amusing, and always had a kind word for him. Irving wondered if the Tower Templars would be this bad. And what the other mages were like.

A thousand thoughts swirled through his young mind as they approached the docks near the tower one morning. Was the Tevinter bridge intentionally destroyed? Were the mages ever allowed outside the tower? How many mages were his age? Would he learn how to make fireballs? Why did the Templars wear robes with their armor? His cascade of thoughts was interrupted as Sorell dismounted and dragged him to the docks. He kept trying to tell Sorell he wasn’t an invalid, but the Templar insisted on hauling him around by the collar.

“We’ll take him from here, Knight-Commander. Do you have his papers?”

“Here. I just need the bounty for his family.” The Tower Templar handed Sorrel a bag of what was clearly money. Irving thought he understood. The money would be a lot to his poor family: enough that they would forget their middle son. The exchange done, the Templar firmly led Irving onto a boat, which he rowed across to the Tower.


	2. WIP

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WIP: Chapter Fragment.
> 
> Relevant Codex Entries:  
> Origins: Extracurricular Studies

“Lad, you should know better by now. Stay out of the Templars’ way and travel in a group. This isn’t Redcliffe.” Senior Enchanter Sinclair admonished Irving as he pressed a fistful of conjured ice to his twelve year old apprentice’s black eye. The boy was highly intelligent but had a roguish nature that revealed itself in the form of pranks. Mages or Templars, it made no difference to Irving, and more than once he’d proven that even First Enchanter Guillaume and Knight Commander Armand were not above pranking.

Yet this time Irving had been on the receiving end of a simple, random beating utterly unconnected with his usual mischief. Walking back from the library, Irving had bumped into a Templar he hadn’t seen over his stack of tomes. Most apprentices in that situation would have stammered an apology, run or pleaded with the Templar; such was the situation at Kinloch Hold. Irving, however, offered a flip remark to the unknown, helmed Templar and was subsequently backhanded by the knight’s mailed fist. Sinclair had luckily been looking for Irving and was able to intercede before the boy’s temper earned him more than a black eye.


	3. Lift Me From a World of Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WIP

The ring of steel on steel was music to Greagoir. At fourteen years old he believed that his life could not have been on a better course. He was a squire to Bann Timmon’s son, Alaric, who he had been friends with for years. He’d be a knight in a few years. Ser Greagoir. He rather liked the sound of that. For the son of a maid and a soldier he’d led a fairly privileged life due to his friendship with Alaric. The Bann allowed Greagoir to study and train with his son, as Alaric seemed more amenable to both with Greagoir along, which meant that Greagoir was unusually skilled with numbers and lore as well as arms. Having raced away from Ceolfric, Alaric’s tutor, after lessons were finished, the boys eagerly met Padraic the armsmaster and began their sparring.

Greagoir leapt forward and managed to catch his sword on Alaric’s hilt. Greagoir grinned and managed to disarm Alaric. Padraic congratulated him and Greagoir returned Alaric’s sword to him. The two boys soon returned to furiously sparring; once again Greagoir bested Alaric, though he did allow his friend to get in a few hits. The weaponsmaster raised an eyebrow at Greagoir’s actions, but as Alaric truly believed he’d scored a touch he said nothing. Soon both were happy, but panting hard. Padraic called an end to practice, noting that the boys had been there for three hours. Alaric cheerily bid goodbye to Greagoir and headed to the main hall for dinner. Greagoir began to make his way down to the village. 

His parents had preferred to live in the village rather than the close quarters available to the men at arms. Their house wasn’t particularly attractive- it was more a one room cottage with a loft than a house, truth be told. It could have been cheerful, easily enough. And Greagoir was always careful to let Alaric think it was. But walking home from the castle every night left a knot in Greagoir’s stomach. Images and sounds whirred through his mind: yells, sobs, tears and blood. Increasingly his mother stayed silent, which was worse. The deaths of his little sisters from the wasting disease had left her a shell: a ragdoll. Greagoir stopped and leaned against a tree, breathing deeply and steeling himself for what was to come. He silently prayed that his father had drunk enough to have passed out by now; every once and awhile he was lucky enough that that happened.  
Clearly the Maker had other plans. One of his father’s fellow men at arms approached Greagoir on the street, pity in his eyes.

“Boy, I’d stay clear of your father right now… Sergeant put him on a suspension for coming to training completely drunk. Wasn’t too happy about that and tried to hit Sarge. Sergeant threw him out… He’s barred from the Bann’s service.” The old soldier looked at the boy apologetically and gave him a pat on the shoulder. It was meant to be comforting, but Greagoir felt cold. He wanted to run and every bone in his body yearned to do so. But then he thought of his mother and he continued on home.

The yard was full of weeds and the door was a faded red, a relic of a time when his family was a bit more functional. When his little sisters played with their dolls and wanted piggyback rides from their big brother. When his mother looked on the lot of them with a smile as she aired the laundry, and his father painted the door a nice bright red. His mother had asked him to do so and he’d laughed saying that was a strange thing to do, but he’d done it. She’d heard it was how the people in the Free Marches noted hospitality, with a red door, and she’d wanted to do the same. His father still had his bad days back then, but every once and awhile he’d come out of it long enough to be a real father, a real husband. Long enough for the family to hope that just maybe he’d stop. But those days were long past. 

Greagoir lifted the latch and went inside. The scene was worse than usual. His father was yelling unintelligibly at his mother, who was curled up in a ball on the floor, her left arm at a disturbing angle. Greagoir was filled with a white hot rage, but he controlled himself and stood between his parents. However, years of training and the strength that comes from wearing so many pounds of armor and swinging a greatsword had left his father with enough strength to toss Greagoir back across the room. Greagoir heard a sickening crack and felt blood run down his head, over his eyes. The room went black.

Greagoir woke sometime during the night: the darkness was absolute. He could hear his father snoring, likely passed out drunk. The reek of alcohol assailed his nose; usually he didn’t notice it, but now it nauseated him. He was still bleeding from his skull and stood with great difficulty. He began to make his way over to the cabinet where the bandages were stored, but nearly tripped over something large. Greagoir bent over, trying to figure out what it was. Suddenly Greagoir realized it was a body. It was his mother. Her flesh was like ice and Greagoir soon found that her neck was at an odd angle and her once pretty face was unrecognizable. He’d finally done it. His father had killed his mother and left his only child bleeding out while he slept, uncaring. Greagoir held his mother’s hand, tears streaming down his face and prayed that she found peace with the Maker and with his sisters. He stood and went over to his father.

Greagoir was too angry to speak. He shoved his father out of bed and hauled him upright. Hung over and half awake, Greagoir’s father was slow, but perhaps angrier than when just plain drunk.

“Boy, fuck’s wrong with you? You begging for a beating?” His father tried to clout him over the ear and missed. Greagoir realized that all his father had to do was hit him on the head again and he’d lose this fight. He began to distance himself from him.

“You killed her! You killed my mother you demon-spawned bastard!” Greagoir yelled angrily at him and letting go of some sense, charged his father, knocking him to the floor. Greagoir was able to get in a few punches to the older man’s face before he rolled over and pinned Greagoir to the ground. Suddenly his father’s hands were around his throat. Greagoir began choking, with his vision swimming in front of him. He began to flail and reach for something, anything that he could hit him with.

Greagoir’s fingers found purchase finally and he thanked the Maker for his father’s lack of military discipline. He grabbed hold of the sword that had been carelessly left on the floor and hid his father with the flat repeatedly. Suddenly he could breathe again as his father momentarily backed off. Greagoir tried to back away and stand, but his father lunged for him again. Greagoir’s training took over at that moment, knowing he wouldn’t survive if his father got his hands on him, sword or no. Greagoir, still sitting on the floor, waited and ran his father through when he lunged.

Greagoir sat stunned for a moment. His father was dead, finally. But now he was alone. Alone in a house with two dead bodies, himself covered in blood. He paled as he realized that he’d murdered his father. He’d picked the fight, it was hardly self-defense, never mind his mother’s death. The Orlesian laws about patricide and fratricide would see him hang, especially if the Bann’s mage were to scry the event. Well, so be it. What was done was done and he’d gotten justice for his mother. Greagoir stood, his father’s body sliding to the floor with a dull thud. His head still ached and bled and now his throat was bruised and aching. He grabbed some elfroot and bandages and began to tend to his wounds best he could. Looking at the carnage, at his poor mother, Greagoir decided he needed to do his duty by her- and even his father- and he set out for the Chantry.

Knight-Captain Merrick looked askance at Greagoir as he approached the Chantry in the dark of night. His wounds and bloodstains were hard to see in the darkness, but the boy’s expression spoke volumes. Merrick nodded to Ser Jaremy and led Greagoir inside. The Knight-Captain had always taken a shine to the lad and had tried to convince him to join the Templars on many occasions as his intelligence, piety, discipline and swordsmanship would serve the order well. He’d always refused and Merrick suspected it was due to his no-account son-of-a-bitch father. He was a rising star within the squires that would serve as the Dragonspeak knights, and Merrick suspected that Greagoir would have command of the Bannorn’s soldiers when Alaric became Bann.

“Knight-Captain… I need to speak to Revered Mother Althea. It’s urgent,” Greagoir sounded completely in earnest, though a note of deep sorrow underscored the boy’s words. Merrick frowned. Normally he would have the boy wait until dawn when the Revered Mother would be awake, but something in Greagoir’s voice moved Merrick to wake Althea. Merrick had Greagoir wait on one of the front pews of the Chantry. In the light of the mage fire Merrick could see some of Greagoir’s injuries and was soon briskly moving to get the Revered Mother. Something was terribly amiss with the usually affable, though serious boy.


	4. Shadows Thrive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WIP: Chapter fragment

The year 8:88 Blessed was a tense year for the young Templar Greagoir. He was eighteen years old and had been transferred from mundane guard duty at the Lothering Chantry to Kinloch Hold, the Fereldan Circle of Magi. He had been at the Tower for a month and was still wide-eyed at being surrounded by so many mages. So many potential abominations or apostates. He'd grown up on stories about blood mages; Adain of Starkhaven had escaped when he was only eight years old. He recalled nights spent in wide-eyed terror over that, though he had had little to fear. It had merely been a child's imagination blowing a bit of news out of proportion. Nonetheless Adain was never caught, was still spoken of in fearful tones by the common folk, bitterly by the templars, and with admiration from the mages. The last was particularly troubling, and gave Greagoir no end to anxiety.

“Maker’s Beard!” Greagoir yelped as he jumped several feet. When he regained control of himself, Greagoir realized he’d only suffered a minor burn, though it was in a rather inconvenient spot on the back of his robes. He turned around and glared at empty air as he saw two mage apprentices sprinting away, laughing. One clearly carried a rod of fire. Greagoir’s cheeks burned as he realized he had to make his way back to the barracks in this state.

Down the hall, Irving had to fight the urge to howl with laughter. He’d told Garell it would be worth the hassle to get the rod, and it certainly had been. The new Templar was the perfect target as well. Irving couldn’t conceal the rather vicious grin that lit up his features as he thought about giving the Templars their due. In the fight to control the Tower, the mages were always at a loss, as was true across Thedas. The tower was ruled through fear, which all too often included rape and brutality, which the First Enchanter attempted to mitigate as much as he could, though the Knight-Commander was traditionally only concerned with the first- and only if it could be substantiated, which was generally never- as it pertained to Templar fraternization policies. Otherwise the only retaliation the mages could muster was apostasy or petty pranks: clearly neither would remedy the situation. 

Irving wasn’t the sort who could dwell on dark thoughts for long, however, and soon his roguish nature had him thinking up new uses for the rod he’d requisitioned. The dormitory baths for the older, female apprentices was just on the other side of the wall of the male dormitory, after all. Irving grinned, deciding that risking his mentor’s wrath was certainly worth it.


	5. The Lights in the Shadow

Greagoir soon learned the name of the young apprentice who had made him the gossip of the garrison and shot him a vitriolic glare whenever he crossed paths with Irving. Irving tended to return the look with a knowing smirk and a glint in his hazel eyes that promised future pranks. However in 8:90 Blessed, the silent and escalating war between the two would be brought to an abrupt end.

Greagoir patrolled the apprentice floor confidently, certain that he’d gotten the better of Irving this time around. He’d turned a prank around on Irving, in front of Senior Enchanter Sinclair, and landed the apprentice in the scullery. Irving was scheduled to undergo the Harrowing soon, and hopefully in the name of decorum, he’d cease this war. The young Templar was now comfortable with the Tower and was simply sick of Irving’s childish behavior. He’d observed it in various other apprentices as well, and sighed, thinking that he’d grow tired of this quickly. He did thank the Maker, however, that there had been little else to deal with over the past two years. He was pulled out of his reverie by a scene down the hall.

In the magelight he could see Templar Asrin standing over a very small, whimpering body. As Greagoir approached he could see it was a small elf boy, who had a bloody nose and welts on the skin that was visible through his torn sleeves. Greagoir saw red as he approached Asrin, and proceeded to attack his fellow Templar with a fury that should have been reserved for his own father.

Greagoir had knocked Asrin out before he realized what he’d done. The boy on the floor sat up, wide-eyed at what happened; many apprentices were soon out in the hallway surveying the scene with the same look. One blond girl, of an age with the badly beaten boy, gave him a look bordering on awe. Greagoir took a breath and ignored the unconscious Asrin in the name of keeping order. He turned to the boy.

“Lad, can you walk?” The apprentice was still in shock and only shook his head. Greagoir bent over and carefully picked up the apprentice.

“The rest of you are violating curfew. Return to your beds, or your masters and the Knight-Commander will know.” The apprentices scattered like leaves with that cool announcement. Greagoir turned around to take the boy to the infirmary, deciding that he could figure out how to deal with Asrin later. He found himself face to face with Irving, who frowned and was now eying Greagoir speculatively.

“Irving you’re not exempt. Get back to your dormitory.” Irving hesitated and began to walk away without a word. His original hesitancy won out, however, as he turned and spoke to Greagoir.  
“You’re risking yourself for a mage boy. Likely full censure. Why?”

Greagoir sighed, “I… Grown men should not treat women and children like rag dolls,” Greagoir’s nostrils flared and anger flashed in his eyes. Irving suddenly saw a great deal of Greagoir’s past writ on his face.

“Templars must uphold the ideals of the Chantry, which includes defending the defenseless and speaking out against all wrongs. I… have not been entirely comfortable with how things are done here. This child,” he said indicating the boy in his arms, “may be a mage, but he is but a boy. There is no excuse for what Asrin and the others do.” Greagoir decided that as he’d already lost control of the situation, he may as well lose some of his authority over Irving for a chance at peace, or at least a respite.

“This is why I’ve never truly taken you or the other apprentices to task for your pranks. You frustrate me, certainly, and you’ve caused me not a few headaches, but I can understand striking out when you are helpless. My sense of justice is likely why I was admitted to the Templar cloisters, rather than executed, when I killed my father six years ago.”

Irving stood transfixed. A Templar had not only admitted that a mage was a human, but had in turn proved himself a more complex figure as well. As Greagoir turned away to bring the boy to the infirmary, Irving began to regret his treatment of the Templar. In a flash of foresight, he realized that one such Templar would prove a valuable ally in protecting the apprentices, and so Irving swore he’d speak on Greagoir’s behalf if this came to trial before the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter.


	6. They Who Stand Before the Corrupt and Wicked And Do Not Falter

Irving and Greagoir’s testimony at Greagoir’s inevitable trial had an interesting effect upon the tower. The Knight-Commander gained an admiration for the young recruit and quietly promoted him to Knight-Corporal, while making an example of Asrin by sending him to Denerim to await the judgement of the Grand Cleric. For months there seemed to be a strained peace in the Tower, as the Templars, shamed by Greagoir’s simple faith and moral character, sought to uphold the values they once held close. The older mages were unable to part with the paranoia that a lifetime of abuse had bred within them, and considered Greagoir to be a ploy on the part of the Templars. The mages of an age with him, led first and foremost by Irving, attempted to establish a rapport with the Templar, bringing many of their serious grievances to him. Slowly he became not simply a Templar, but a person in their eyes. While many were put off by his piety, none denied that he was fair. The younger apprentices treated him like a hero of old come again. It all eroded over time, but it was a foundation.

Irving found himself liking the Templar the more he got to know him. Often the two could be found talking during Greagoir’s rounds and soon were no longer mage and Templar, but two young men, scarcely more than boys, really. The number of friendly wrestling matches in the halls, or the odd whistle at a mage girl around their age often bore testament to that. This oddity, like everything else about the newly made Knight-Corporal, was fodder for gossip in the Tower. Gossip that he himself was blissfully unaware of, though Irving knew quite well. He’d had to spend a memorably awkward afternoon explaining things to Greagoir after a pair of Templars walked by the two and snickered about “Knight-Corporal Purity and his bedwarmer.”

Upon hearing that Greagoir looked decidedly baffled. Irving smothered a chuckle, and Greagoir glared at him.

“Well?”

“Well, what… love?” Irving was toying with him, batting his eyes outrageously and making grotesque looking kissing faces.

Greagoir was not amused. He punched Irving in the shoulder, “Irving! Cut it out! Is this your doing?”

Irving could almost pity the poor Templar. He was very naïve. “In a manner of speaking it is technically both our doing,” Greagoir was ready to punch Irving again, hearing the double entendre, so Irving hastily added, “Mages and Templars… Coexist. They aren’t friends. Templars traditionally have taken their sexual frustrations out on the mages: some prefer rape, others a long term liaison. Whatever the case, it’s about a Templar asserting power. Your fellows believe I’m the tool you’re using to keep the apprentices in line… We spend so much time together and they can’t fathom we’d seek friendship outside our own kind, so they conclude I’m your pet.”

Greagoir turned white as a sheet. “But I’m not… I don’t… I’ve never even lain with a woman- but… a man? You?”

Irving’s inner rascal took hold again, “Greggy, does this mean you don’t love me anymore?” Irving bit his lip and tried to look flirtatious. Greagoir rolled his eyes and began to walk off. He hesitated and turned back to Irving.

“What about the mages… I don’t want the girls to think…” Greagoir trailed off helplessly.

“My dear Templar, are you actually considering courting a female mage? That’s most unwise and you know it.” Every once and awhile Irving felt the need to give counsel. Even if it was blatantly obvious.

“I know, and I’m not. It’s just fun…” Irving grinned. His friend had rather enjoyed the attention of the female mages after defending young Pharamond, and he frankly couldn’t blame him.

“They all know better. My current description in gossip circles includes the rare magical talent to simply look at a girl and she suddenly finds herself naked and in my bed.” Irving smirked and combed a hand through his chestnut brown hair. “Not too far off the mark actually. I think I managed three just last week… It was all going so well until they told each other.” Irving sounded regretful, but Greagoir was the odd mixture of uncomfortable, envious and congratulatory towards his friend that the celibate twenty year old male often finds himself in.

Greagoir wanted to head off any further discussion of Irving’s sexual adventures. “Well that’s all alright for you, but do they know that I’m not interested in you? Like that?”

“They know. More than a few of the male mages who are so inclined are actually quite upset that it isn’t true. And I could line up a nice handful of female mages who would like to sheath the young Templar’s sword.” Greagoir groaned, cursing Irving for that image, thinking that the room felt very, very warm and how necessary a cold bath was at the moment. He breathed through it, letting his Templar training and the Chant get him away from those feelings. Irving laughed, but turned around quickly. It seems their somewhat bawdy conversation had ended just in time. 

A little blond girl tugged on Irving’s sleeve and motioned for him to bend over. Greagoir recognized her as the girl who had seemed so impressed with him when he’d stood up for Pharamond. She kept glancing at Greagoir as she whisped in Irving’s ear. She then handed Irving something and scampered away. Irving couldn’t help but laugh.

“Never fear, dear Templar, the young maid swoons over your presence and brings you a sign of her favor. Perchance you should pin it upon the bridle of your gallant steed as you go to do battle against other demons such as the foul beast Asrin!” Irving had a flair for the dramatic at times. It made Greagoir’s teeth itch. Irving nonetheless handed Greagoir the wilted bouquet of flowers that the girl had picked- likely from the herb garden. Greagoir hoped that the girl hadn’t heard Irving’s mockery- it was a sweet, innocent gesture and Greagoir appreciated it.

“Leave off, Irving, she’s young. I didn’t catch her name… Next time I see her I’ll thank her- and apologize for… well I’d say your behavior, but perhaps it’s simply easier to apologize for you in general…”

Irving, the image of maturity, stuck his tongue out at Greagoir. “Her name is Wynne. She isn’t usually this shy- she grew up orphaned and on the streets: a tough girl.” Irving grew serious, “I wouldn’t leave those flowers hanging around, nor be seen encouraging her, innocent though it may be… Many Templars in the past have had… peculiar… no, vile is closer I suppose… tastes and if you think the idea of you and me as gossip is bad, well… I needn’t say that you showing any type of interest in a child will end very badly.”

Greagoir grew frustrated, “Irving, this Tower… I cannot believe that such an atmosphere has been allowed to flourish for this long! It’s wrong. Children should know nothing of such things and here you suggest it’s another practice that’s simply ignored. And the more I see, the more I’ve noticed that Mage’s take, well nowhere near so much as the Templars, but a great deal of advantage of the way things are structured. Why don’t the enchanters protect the apprentices better? Is it because they need all their ‘favors’ for themselves? Why is that even necessary?” Greagoir slammed a fist into the wall.

Irving, like every other apprentice who walked these halls in fear, had privately wondered the same. He felt vaguely disgusted with himself for growing to accept the common nature of the abuse, and realized that the elder mages were likely so numb, they simply ceased to care. His friend’s naïveté might eventually save them all.


	7. Fire is Her Water

Eventually, the rumors died down and Greagoir simply became another young Templar. He would not make the next rank until he was twenty-seven; the slowing of his former meteoric progress in the ranks caused him to be below notice, excepting Knight-Commander Gavin, Enchanter Irving and a very determined seventeen year old apprentice Wynne. 

The awkward, shy ten year old had disappeared, and to Greagoir’s dismay a confident, intelligent and beautiful young woman had taken her place. Increasingly Greagoir used their ten years age difference as his own personal chastity belt whenever she attempted to suggest… things. However, Wynne’s infatuation had not dimmed, but matured with the passage of time and she was determined that the handsome young Templar was her own Knight in shining (Chanty-issue) armor. That the mages tended to sexual promiscuity early had meant that her mentors would not intercede if it was what she ultimately wanted. Yet a dalliance with an unHarrowed apprentice was exactly what Knight-Lieutenant Greagoir needed to avoid, as he was under Knight-Commander Gavin’s constant scrutiny. Needless to say, Greagoir spent many a frustrated night entertaining himself alone, half wishing he’d give in and half wishing she’d find someone else interesting.

Ashamed at wanting to break his vows so easily, Greagoir found himself in the Chantry one such night, kneeling before the statue of Andraste, asking for forgiveness from the Maker and the Prophet. He’d begun to find his inner calm when he heard light movements behind him. Greagoir assumed it was one of the sisters checking the fires.

“I’m sorry to disturb you Sister… I simply needed a bit of guidance.” Greagoir apologized as he rose.

A laugh like the peal of silver bells greeted him. One he knew all too well. “Mistaking me for a Sister, Greagoir? You truly must be as much of an old man as you keep claiming.”

Greagoir felt Wynne’s hands slide up his unarmored chest, ending in an embrace about his shoulders. His calm was completely shattered as he felt warmth spreading throughout his groin. In the candlelight he could see her appraising him, much as a hawk does a mouse. Seeing him fail to resist, she moved in closer, her lithe, ripe body flush against him. She smiled as she felt him harden through his soft breeches and moved her hips against his. Greagoir felt like he couldn’t breathe, gasping a bit as she moved against him.

“Why, Knight-Lieutenant, don’t be in such a rush. We still have our clothes on after all.” She finished the statement with a wicked grin. She pulled his head towards hers and began to explore his mouth with her tongue. Greagoir’s self-control was in serious danger of snapping completely. All he could think about was stripping her clothes off and taking her right there in the Chantry. As Wynne’s hands began to travel further south, the fact of where they were took hold and Greagoir turned away.

He raggedly said, “Young mage… If you have no business here in the Chantry- preferably praying to the Maker- then you need to head down to your chambers, it is well past curfew.” He didn’t stay to see that Wynne followed the order, instead fleeing to the Templar quarters before anyone saw him with his rather conspicuous problem still in evidence.

The next morning Greagoir approached Knight-Commander Gavin about joining a mage hunt, as he had yet to do so. Gavin heartily approved and praised Greagoir for his initiative and commitment to duty, not knowing that his favored Knight-Lieutenant had almost risked Aeonar the night before. Greagoir currently though that the apostates would be less dangerous than Wynne.


	8. Guide Me Through the Blackest Nights

Wynne had seen Greagoir and the Mage Hunters approach the Tower from her perch in the upper library. She worried if he would still be quite so open-minded as he had been travelling in a pack whose mission was to destroy mages who defied the Chantry. She couldn’t bear the thought of her Knight becoming another faceless monster loosed in the Tower. She sighed. They hadn’t particularly parted on good terms, as she had clearly scared him. She would wait and observe to see what the best course of action would be.

Wynne had been forced to mature a great deal in Greagoir’s absence. She had undergone her Harrowing and was now counted among the Enchanters. And with Greagoir gone the Tower slowly began to revert to the brutal way things had been in her childhood. She found herself defending those younger than her and wound up in more than a few fights protecting her fellows. Alongside her in her crusade was Enchanter Irving. Their connection to Greagoir and the mutual need they had for change brought the two together. Irving knew Wynne still carried a torch for Greagoir, but still attempted to win her over. He told himself it would help Greagoir if he could shift her affections to himself, though he was more fascinated by a girl who was only interested in the chaste Templar. Eventually Wynne’s stubborn streak proved stronger than Irving’s and they settled into a friendship that would prove one of the most enduring of each other’s lives.


	9. With Passioned Breath Does the Darkness Creep

Greagoir followed a discreet distance behind Wynne as she sauntered down the hallway. He guessed she was rolling her hips for his enjoyment, and for once he was glad of the anonymity of his helm, as his eyes were riveted on the round swells of her behind. While every so often he felt a twinge of guilt at betraying the spirit of his vows by involving himself with a mage so intimately, moments like these more than made up for it.

The young mage had ducked into an out of the way alcove and Greagoir stood in the hallway, waiting a few minutes to be certain that prying eyes were not in sight. The Knight Commander always altered the patrols, but the schedule was known to the Templars: Greagoir was only looking for stray mages rather than his brother Templars. Satisfied that no one was coming, Greagoir soon joined her.

They kissed hurriedly, hungrily. Greagoir removed his gauntlets and wound his hands through her long, gold hair as she expertly fought through layers of cloth, mail and leather to free his erection from his breeches, careful to keep his mail surcoat from scraping the engorged head of cock, already wet with precum. As she worked, Wynne had slowly moved Greagoir towards the stone bench, pushing him down to a sitting position. Greagoir soon pulled away from the kiss, observing Wynne. He desperately wished they had more time, a private space with a real bed… They never truly got to enjoy each other, and every time Greagoir wished he could just lie abed with her, and slowly touch and kiss every inch of the beautiful mage.

She soon turned her back to him, lifting up her hair so he could help her out of her robes quickly. They swiftly pooled at her feet as he finished. The Templar reached out to pull her into his lap, carefully positioning her naked body. He moved her hair back away from her neck again, gently kissing and sucking on her neck, working his way down her shoulders and upper back. His hands busily grabbed at her pert breasts as well as touching her wet sex. He involuntarily ground his cock into her firm buttocks, and felt her body move in answer. Greagoir pulled Wynne back against him to more easily get his hand between her legs again. He began slipping his fingers inside her, touching that spot that drove her crazy. She writhed silently in his lap: He knew that she was fighting the urge to yell and moan. He longed to hear her enjoying herself, but knew that that small pleasure was not worth risking discovery. He kissed her neck again through her hair, enjoying the scent and feel of that wave of gold.

She soon surprised him by pulling his fingers out of her. Wynne stood up and faced him, grabbing his collar and fiercely kissing him as she began to straddle him. Greagoir guided her as she slowly lowered herself on his manhood. When he was fully enveloped by that velvet, wet warmth, Wynne wrapped her arms about his shoulders, frowning slightly at his armor. Greagoir let loose a pleasant, low male chuckle and kissed her, the only sound the two had emitted since they met. She soon found his tongue thrust into her mouth and began to return the favor as she took over their frantic lovemaking, rolling her hips against his. Totally bereft of control, Greagoir simply allowed Wynne to do the work. Within minutes he reached orgasm, tightly holding her to him as he pumped her full of his seed.

As soon as it had begun it was over as she climbed off him carefully, knowing that his armored body would provide little comfort in the aftermath.

“Wynne…”Most any man would have been happy enough after sex, but the Templar wanted something more than these trysts, and the unhappiness shone through his voice. The same feeling was mirrored in her eyes are she studied him, having dressed quickly. She smiled at him and kissed him gently, leaving the alcove.

Greagoir laced up his breeches and donned his helmet and gauntlets, sighing.


	10. Though All Before Me Is Shadow

Twenty-nine year old Knight-Captain Greagoir had little interest in what Knight-Commander Gavin was saying to the assembled Templars. The usual lectures on restraining sexual urges were never heeded; Greagoir himself had been in a liaison with a mage far younger than himself for a few years. Greagoir was now practical- and perhaps a bit philosophical- about it: men had urges, and the Templars would be far more effective if they weren’t eyeing every woman and not a few of the men like they were a piece of meat. He certainly didn’t condone force- and had in fact spent the better part of a year secretly courting the young mage- but there should have been more leeway for appropriate liaisons. Unfortunately, Gavin and the Chantry rather vociferously disagreed with that observation. After a few more minutes of haranguing the men, Gavin dismissed them and called Greagoir into his study.

“I swear, these boys get more randy every year. Greagoir, this time it’s truly serious. I need you keeping an eye on those around the apprentices and Enchanters… According to First Enchanter Sinclair one of the young mages is pregnant. She’s been seen with a Templar, though it’s unknown who it is at the moment. Until this matter is sorted out, I need you to keep the boys under scrutiny and figure out who is responsible. Having the culprit spend the rest of his life in the cloisters should cool his ardor… You’re likely looking for one of the twenty year olds based on the mage’s age.”

Greagoir began to feel sick, “Ah, Ser, which mage is it exactly? That would likely shorten the list of suspects greatly…”

Gavin looked annoyed, “I’m not stupid son, I was getting to that. Enchanter… Wynne, I believe.”

With that statement the world seemed to crash down around Greagoir’s ears.


	11. Nothing He Has Wrought Shall Be Lost

Over the next nine months Greagoir kept up the pretext of hunting for the father of Wynne’s child. Once the initial shock had waned, Greagoir found himself wondering what it would be like to have a child and he often met with Wynne to discuss what they would do. She was thirty, not entirely young but still rather confused about what to do. Increasingly she became irritated and often took it out on her young apprentice, Aneirin. Greagoir, at his age, often felt he should be guiding her through the process, but was completely at a loss. Irving, was very little help either, only smugly noting that male mages had better control over this sort of thing, in an attempt to poke fun at Greagoir. However, the three began to seriously wonder what they would do when Wynne’s time came. 

Traditionally, all children of mages became chantry property and were shipped to a Chantry orphanage not long after birth. Wynne, and increasingly Greagoir, became rather vehement about losing their child in this fashion, and so began to work out an escape plan with Irving. While Greagoir was staunch in his duties as a templar, his feelings for Wynne, for his child, altered his judgement. The idea of holding his little girl or teaching swordplay to his boy overwhelmed him. Greagoir ruefully admitted to himself that the policy against fraternization with mages was valid, as he was far gone at this point. He had served as a Templar at the tower for over twelve years, and soon would use his training to hide Wynne as she became an apostate. Irving was on the fence about accompanying them.

All their plans went to waste however, as Wynne prematurely went into labor in the middle of the night. She was brought to the guest rooms in the Senior Mage quarters and sequestered by what seemed to be a squadron of healers and Templars, including Knight-Commander Gavin and First Enchanter Sinclair. Greagoir was excluded from the group, causing him no end to anxiety as Wynne’s screams echoed through the tower. He made his way with Irving to that hallway when he could take no more. He arrived in time to see the First Enchanter holding a bundle of cloth containing a very pink, mewling little boy. Sinclair looked to Irving, his aide and former apprentice and handed the boy off to him while he readied some paperwork, he claimed. Irving looked vaguely surprised and gave the boy to Greagoir.

Greagoir’s heart melted looking at his son. His little boy. He held him and wondered how in the Maker’s name he could get Wynne out of the Tower with the boy, without bloodshed. His choice was made for him, however, when Knight-Commander Gavin stepped out and took the boy from Greagoir.

“The First Enchanter had you baby-sitting, eh? No matter. Once Sinclair gets back with those papers, I’ll be off to Denerim: the Sisters can take the boy from there. Then this whole mess will be sorted out and the tower can go back to some semblance of normalcy,” Gavin paused and frowned. “Pity we never found the father. A complete violation of policy or not, a real man would have been here to stand by Wynne. Likely it was a one night stand. Hmph. Greagoir, any ideas for names? I’m terrible with that sort of thing and we’re not allowed to have the mothers name them, but I need one for the paperwork.”

Greagoir kept his shock to himself. This at least was one place where he could come through for Wynne. They had discussed names for hours upon hours and had finally settled on one for a boy and one for a girl. Greagoir had desperately wanted to name his son for his friend Alaric, after hearing of the Bann’s passing, but Wynne wanted to name the boy for her mentor, Senior Enchanter Rhys, who had passed away and had been like a father to her.

“Er… Rhys is a good name sir. I think one of the mages who died recently was named Rhys…” Greagoir hoped that he sounded detached and that his rather lame reasoning would fly with Gavin.

“Rhys? Works for me. I’ll take the lad, I see Sinclair now.”

Greagoir nodded at the Knight-Commander, feeling his heart in his stomach. It hit the floor when Sinclair returned, and good as his word, Gavin left for Denerim, leaving Greagoir in charge of the Templars.

For decades, Wynne and Greagoir would remain politely distant, never speaking of their son. Wynne began to take every chance to venture outside the Tower she could; no one spoke of it, but all knew she continued to search for her child. Greagoir began to retreat within himself, and only Irving was able to reanimate a ghost of a smile on Greagoir’s lips, and that rarely. Gavin increasingly approved of the way Greagoir conducted himself, thinking the cool detachment would suit a future Knight-Commander perfectly. Years passed and soon Greagoir became Knight-Commander, the scourge of every apprentice’s nightmares. Irving succeeded Remille, Sinclair’s short termed successor, and often wished he hadn’t. The daily arguments between him and his old friend were slowly driving them apart, as each strove to represent both mages and chantry best they could.


End file.
